#22: Poisoned - Aramis needs the antidote. Therefore his friends are going to get it for him, and woe be to anyone who gets in their way.
"Just hang in there, Aramis. Athos an' d'Artagnan will be back soon."
The plea fell on deaf ears, as Porthos dabbed more sweat off his friend's brow. His jaw clenched tighter, eyes full of naked anxiety to see that despite all his reassurances and promises and urges to hold on, Aramis was getting worse.
"How is he?" a grim voice spoke from behind him.
Porthos twisted, giving Treville the barest of nods as the captain came to stand over Aramis's shoulder. He wasn't sure how to answer, not having enough experience with poisons and their effects. All he knew was what he saw, and that was that Aramis was obviously in agony and even if his eyes were open, he was nowhere near them.
"Worse," Porthos settled on gruffly. He swallowed. "If the others can't make Delacroix give up the antidote..."
Treville hummed an assent, followed by a short silence. "You know Athos," he added then. "He will be... persuasive."
Porthos knew that. He wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of Athos's persuasion himself, had seen what the swordsman was capable of when truly enraged. Between his ice cold lethality and d'Artagnan spitting fire and untempered ferocity, Delacroix would be wise to give up the antidote to the poison he'd used on Aramis quickly.
But what if it wasn't quick enough? The villa was hours from Paris... what if Aramis couldn't hold on that long?
"What did 'e think he could gain from this?" Porthos growled, rinsing out the rag and carefully dabbing more sweat from Aramis's ashen brow. "Why would he poison Aramis? Don't make sense."
"Men like Delacroix rarely do," Treville replied. "I suspect he thought he would be able to bargain a favor from the famed musketeers in exchange. I'm sure he'll want some sort of trade or bargain."
"Or it was just a ruse," Porthos pointed out, the thought only just occurring to him and leaving a cold fear clamped around his heart. "If it's a way of trappin' more of us-"
"Aramis's life is on the line," Treville cut him off firmly, setting a hand on Porthos's shoulder in a reassuring squeeze. "I would very much hate to be in the shoes of any man trying to trap Athos and d'Artagnan right now. Or anyone foolish enough to get in their way. Porthos, you know them. They'll get the antidote."
Porthos nodded. He did know that. The question remained though, would it be in time?
Treville left him to continue caring for Aramis, but the truth was the burly musketeer had no idea what he was doing. Aramis was the medic, not him. Maybe he should have let d'Artagnan stay with him; the pup had been learning from Aramis after all, but Porthos couldn't bear the thought of not being at his friend's side.
So he did the best he could, keeping Aramis cool with the wet rag, murmuring soothing reassurances whenever Aramis opened bleary, vacant eyes. When the marksman started seizing, Porthos waited at the ready to... well, he didn't even know what to do, so stood helplessly by in case Aramis flung himself off the cot.
"Just hold on," he begged his friend yet again. "Athos and d'Artagnan will be back with the antidote soon."
They had to be.
.o.O.o.
D'Artagnan urged his horse on, harder than he would normally drive the animal. He felt the little vial tucked safely in his inner pocket. It wasn't much farther now... ten minutes and he would reach the city limits, another five would have him to the garrison. D'Artagnan knew it pained Athos to have sent him on ahead, knew only his pragmatism and logical mind had prevented him from charging out of the villa with d'Artagnan to get back to Aramis as soon as they could.
But someone had to bring Delacroix in, and really how could the man have believed there would be no repercussions for this?
Although, if the crazy noble's plan had gone the way he'd intended, he might have gotten the musketeers' assurances that no charges would be brought against him as part of the payment for the antidote, in addition to the other ridiculous requests he'd had, too tired of being brushed aside by the king in his petitions for... whatever exactly it was. D'Artagnan had barely heard that part. It didn't matter; all that mattered was that the noble had poisoned a musketeer, and he was going to pay for it.
And d'Artagnan had to admit, he'd thought he was angry, he'd even gone so far as to wonder how Athos could be so damned calm about it all on the ride out to the villa.
Well. He'd quickly realized his error as soon as Athos reached Delacroix. Just because Athos acted calm didn't mean he wasn't capable of the same rage as any of them - maybe even more so. D'Artagnan would make a note of it to never get on the swordsman's bad side again, and realized with a touch of chagrin that if Athos had truly been fighting the day d'Artagnan had charged into the garrison, d'Artagnan would have been quite dead.
The city came into view but d'Artagnan didn't slow down, galloping in and shouting at the citizens to make way. By the time he reached the garrison, his sense of dread was nearly overwhelming. The Gascon flung himself off the horse, shouting at the musketeer in the doorway to take the steed; ordinarily he would have never been so careless with a good animal or leave someone else to tend the loyal mount, but this was important. At a dead sprint, d'Artagnan raced for the infirmary and burst through the door.
Porthos was sitting at Aramis's side as though he hadn't even moved since d'Artagnan and Athos had left (and he probably hadn't), but he leaped to his feet as soon as he saw d'Artagnan there.
"Did you get it?" he demanded, hope and fear at war in his dark eyes.
D'Artagnan couldn't even speak, just nodded and hurried to the bedside, fishing the vial out of his pocket as he did.
Porthos nodded and leaned over, clutching Aramis's hand in his own. "Hold on, Aramis!" he insisted to his distinctly grey friend. "D'Artagnan's got the stuff! Please, Aramis..."
He looked terrible, clenching d'Artagnan's heart in greater fear that they must surely be too late. Sweat covered the marksman but he was shaking, every limb trembling. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, staring dully at the ceiling... there was no response to Porthos's words, no indication that he could hear them at all.
D'Artagnan swallowed and pulled out the stopper, forcing himself to move slowly and carefully so as not to spill any of the precious liquid. As gingerly as he could, he trickled the antidote into Aramis's mouth. The marksman slowly blinked and reflexively swallowed the medicine down, but otherwise showed no outward sign of an immediate recovery.
The silence extended, Porthos shifting restlessly, until he finally barked, "How long is it s'posed to take?"
"I don't know," d'Artagnan murmured. "I- I imagine it'll take a little time..."
"You're sure that stuff was good?" Porthos badgered, voice tinged in suspicion. "What if Delacroix-"
"Porthos. It's the right stuff." If only he could be completely sure of it, but d'Artagnan was willing to bet, from the utter terror Athos had instilled in the noble, that Delacroix wouldn't dare give them anything less than the actual antidote. Besides, he needed to keep Porthos calm as well. If d'Artagnan was already so attached to Aramis, he couldn't imagine what Porthos was going through.
Porthos huffed impatiently but accepted the answer, reclaiming his seat at Aramis's bedside. D'Artagnan pulled up another chair to collapse into, exhausted from the frantic race across the country. Neither spoke, and finally the vigil claimed his consciousness at last.
.o.O.o.
That was what Aramis woke to, nearly an hour later. His eyes blearily opened to see d'Artagnan slumped in a chair with his arms crossed, one boot on Aramis's bed, and Porthos beside him with his head bowed and hands clasped as though in prayer. Hmm. Porthos wasn't a particularly prayerful man. He must have been sincerely worried.
Everything felt a little too heavy and his insides felt like they were made of mush, but the fevered memories of the poison working its way through his system were already starting to fade, driven back into the shadows by the sight of his friends.
Aramis sighed a sleepy sigh, just enough for Porthos to hear, and was rewarded by the radiant smile directed his way.
"You're alright!" Porthos gasped softly, finding his hand and clutching it. "Aramis?"
Too tired to reply, the marksman nodded. Breathing felt easier already, his limbs weak but not seizing. "Sorry for worry'n' you," he rasped, then winced. His eyes trailed to a pitcher of water close by, which Porthos immediately grabbed.
"Here," Porthos murmured. "Easy, though."
Aramis wanted to make a remark about how he'd make a medic of all of them yet, but the thought took too much energy to form into words. He settled for allowing Porthos to help lift his head enough to swallow some of the water, then gave his friend a grateful smile. He'd tell him later. Since it looked like there was going to be a later. That was all that mattered.